


A Pale Fire

by guiltyhousewife



Category: Disney - All Media Types, Pocahontas (1995)
Genre: Internalized Homophobia, Interracial Relationship, M/M, Period-Typical Racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-11-03 22:07:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17886014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guiltyhousewife/pseuds/guiltyhousewife
Summary: A Thomas/Kocoum fic based on this videohttp://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MSSlTRxIvtg





	A Pale Fire

It wasn't as if they hadn't been warned.

As Kocoum peered hungrily, wonderingly through the leaves down at the pale fairy-creature, so soft and needy and beautiful with red hair and white-skin, his friend had gave him a brief, gruff warning.

"They are them. We are us. Do not forget that line, Kocoum."

Kocoum had stared hard at his comrade then, who normally would have no leave to talk to him in such a reprimanding manner, the other junior in both age and status, but his partner did not relent, seeing Kocoum's eyes flick back over helplessly as the young, white boy below. 

"The enemy's lies are not always spoken, Kocoum."

And though begrudging being scolded by his inferior, Kocoum knew his words to be true. The way the scarlet-headed youth bent and swayed like sweet grass, the bewitching sparkle in his green eyes told him sweet lies, told his heart that there could be no harm in loving and wanting something so naturally beautiful and pure. 

But his battle-hardened body, the mind molded by the tales and respect of his people knew otherwise, and could sense disaster in the air just as sure as war horns on the wind. 

Thomas too, heard the warnings.

"These people are not people at all!" Ratcliffe had spat, slamming a meaty fist down at the dining hall one night. He was responding to rumors that some of his men had been...communing....with the friendlier of natives. John Smith averted his eyes guiltily, but didn't notice that Thomas too was colored in nervous shame. "I assure you these savages are nothing more than animals, who'd as soon devour you alive than look at you."

But, ah, wasn't that the point? Isn't that what Thomas's poor, foolish, twisted heart desired, to be devoured in the gaze and hands of someone so dark and rich and powerful as Kocoum?

He remembered the hands everywhere on his body, unable to pin in their breeze-like wanderings of his flesh, at once reverently touching his lips, then his hair, then his thighs and cock, the sudden flash of force when they griped him hard, firm lips against him, a body as sure as stone but hotter than flame pushing him back into the tree bark....

And was it so wrong, being an animal? It is the deer that is felled dead by the shot of the hunter, though Thomas was not sure himself who was hunter and who was prey between them, and whether the death his fears foretold would be the sweetest pain or bitterest blow. 

It wasn't as if they were two, young, foolish lovers, caught in the honeyed madness of first love.

Though younger than Kocoum, Thomas had experienced love already in his twenty years. A perfectly fine wife waited, hopefully, for him back home, her sad gray eyes and cornflower hair all that he should ever need. He knew this wasn't love.

It felt like love, the little jump his heart gave when after rushing blindly into the woods, Kocoum would emerge from the shaded darkness, beginning their ever-increasing need for company and affection. And though they could not speak the same words, the straining to communicate as painful as it was impossible, the grunts, sighs, and low murmurs Kocoum would vibrate into the flesh of his shoulder, mouth worship-fully into the hollow of his hip sure sounded like confessions of love. And the cry Thomas gave to the heavens when Kocoum would spear him so wrenchingly, perfectly through on his spear of hot flesh, was as much a declaration of love as anything else he had done in his life.

But he knew it not to be love.

In fact, he suspected it a suicide of his heart, beleaguered hopeless organ lost in a new, terrifying world, despairing of ever returning again. 

Kocoum knew his own mind to be strong, his wits sharp, his wisdom a deep pool he could draw from at will. This was not stupid, stumbling love he felt for Thomas. The only time he felt this way before is when the chieftain would let the animal-smoke spirits wrap their magic figures around his body, the flames of fear dancing in Kocoum's own eyes.

And that, that is what this felt like. Magic: a magic unknown, a magic uninvited, a magic inescapable.

The way Thomas's lips would wrap so debauchingly, so shamelessly around his tortured cock and suck like his breath was to be found within it, the way he would wrap his slender legs around his waist and pull him deeper inside his scalding, tight-body, moaning in pain, thrashing his scarlet-head in agony, but begging with his mouth and eyes for Kocoum to never stop, to please never stop -

It could only be magic. 

It wasn't as if it was ever meant to happen this way, to end how it did. 

Thomas was simply caught in the tide of prejudice, hate and fear that swept them from the base and into the forest to confront the "savages" directly, his cowardice, his curiosity, keeping his feet moving, his loose hands half-heartedly wrapped around his own gun. With Radcliffe at the lead, passion in his eyes, fire in his mouth and hands, Thomas could not help but follow with the other men, somehow hoping that as messy the end would be today, it would at least be an end, an end to the pain and uncertainty in his heart. 

Could anyone be at fault?

John Smith was protecting Pochantas, his love. And Kocoum, blessed, loyal Kocoum, was defending his cousin Pochantas's honor, seeking to destroy the man who tainted her with his lips. The angry wrestling, the desperate struggle in the grass and water seemed unreal to Thomas, who, the first to arrive, did not call out to the makeshift army behind him, did not call out to John or even Kocoum, only staring a the vortex his life had become. Kocoum caught his eyes, and Thomas felt a blow finding the fires of hatred there. Did he think, because of the gun in his hand, that he was one of 'them', a white man in league with John Smith to deface their people and culture? Why did he not respond to the unspoken plea he saw in Thomas's eyes, when before the merest hint of a smile on Thomas's lips was enough to drop the native's pants to his feet. 

He was finally stirred to motion when the rifle rose in Radcliffe's hands, the men coming to a hasty halt to witness the fight before them. The gun was to Thomas's eyes a black, predatory beast, and he screamed in denial and desperation, calling out in a formless cry when the bullet hit Kocoum like a fist, a splatter of blood spraying out, then settling into the water his body fell into. 

He did not care, then, who saw him when he fell to his knees beside the body, unbothered by the angry shoves the natives gave him, the threaten of their own wagged knives when, after the fighting, they went to lift the body of Kocoum, the felled body of his lover from the water, his body as limp in death as Thomas's was in grief. 

If it wasn't love, then, why does the hurt feel so much like love lost? 

It's not as if he meant to fall in love.


End file.
